


Homestead

by miscellea



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 19:43:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miscellea/pseuds/miscellea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you just want something to come home to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homestead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quoth_the_ravyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quoth_the_ravyn/gifts).



Somehow the penthouse suite in the NY Stark tower became the unofficial Avenger’s club house and no one was really sure when exactly that happened. It was actually surprisingly restful, considering the fact that Tony lived there. As Pepper probably could have told them, the Tony Stark parties only represented about 10% of his life. It was a loud and noticeable 10%, but the other 90% was unevenly divided between publicity functions, whining about publicity functions, drinking horrific-looking green smoothies, and blowing stuff up in his workshop.

Still, Tony made for a weird den father.

Only, Steve was sort of effectively homeless unless you counted a rather spartan officers billet in the local SHIELD base and while neither Clint or Natasha were in _precisely_ the same boat, they didn’t exactly have stable addresses either. Thor had a home (pardon, a Godly Palace Among the Stars) but as he had one hell of a commute, he tended to stay over as well when he was in town (Universe. Whatever.). Bruce had taken Tony up on his offer of lab space and while the rest of the team pretended not to know that he was sleeping under his desk, Tony eventually had a soundproof armored suite installed for his use. Bruce had yet to use it, but knowing it was there seemed to make him happy. Everyone else slept in guest rooms that weren’t really anymore.

It didn’t really gel until the day Clint showed up with a Wii and proceeded to introduce both Steve and Thor to the wonderful world of Mario Kart. When they finished that game, Tony brought home a copy of Smash Brothers Brawl. It was all downhill from there.

So when Natasha staggered out of the elevator one day in torn nylons and the remnants of what had once been a slinky Coco Chanel evening gown to the sound of synthesized explosions and Thor’s cry of ‘VICTORY!’, it wasn’t at all weird.

Bruce was the first to notice she was back and pointed her to the kitchen with the particular ‘Don’t think I didn’t see that, young lady’ expression that only people with a lot of extra initials after their names seemed able to perfect. Natasha obediently found a seat on one of the barstools and dropped her Manolos on the counter while Bruce rustled up the first aid kit, which in their house was about the size of a nightstand and rolled around on wheels.

“Gunshots, punctures, or stab wounds?” He asked as he loaded up a syringe with a local anesthetic. He tapped the barrel a few times to clear any air bubbles and gave her a meaningful look of ‘I know this is going somewhere.’

“Just some bruises, skinned knees, and a cut.” She assured him, lifting the hem of her skirt to show where someone had grazed her upper thigh with a box cutter. Bruce poked at it meaningfully and _tsked_.

“Ugly. You’ll need a few stitches.” He employed the syringe on her leg and concentrated on cleaning the minor cuts and scrapes on her arms and face while they waited for her leg to numb up.

“Were you not making merry with the charitable institutions this evening?” Thor asked absently, pausing to shoot a blue plane that she assumed to be Steve’s (judging by his look of mild consternation as it exploded in a miniature mushroom cloud of fireworks) out of the sky. Clint was nowhere in evidence, which was only fair. Playing a shooter game with him was an exercise in futility.

“I was.” She told him and it was true. Fury had sent her out to monitor the chatter at a certain charity auction. It had been a strictly low-key assignment except for the part where a Russian crime boss with a long memory recognized her from a minor to-do in Petersburg and sent his henchmen to ambush her in the parking lot. It had been annoying, but –hey! The crime lord was in SHIELD’s custody and she’d netted some hazard pay just in time for Fashion Week; a net win. “This happened after.”

Steve leaned back to give her The Eyebrow over Thor’s shoulder. The Eyebrow was Steve’s little way of asking if someone needed their legs broken and she shook her head. You could take Captain America out of the 40s, but you couldn’t take the 1940’s out of the Captain. He nodded and went back to his game as Tony emerged from the back room with a paper bag of something as he watched a video on his phone.

“Ouch. _Nasty_.” He shook his head and showed her the clip, which turned out to be security footage from the parking garage. She watched herself fight with mild disinterest and made a note to do some drills in front of a mirror. Her footwork was getting a little sloppy. “Next time you go out, remind me to give you one of my ultralight under-armor prototypes. Might have to wear something high-necked though, but it should be flexible enough for you.” He added absently and tilted the paper bag in her direction so she could see its contents; donuts in cinnamon sugar from Lola. Apparently someone had just gotten back from Seattle. _Yum_.

“Thank you.” She took two and shamelessly stole the entire container of raspberry butter sauce. Tony laughed and she stuck her tongue out at him.

Bruce poked her thigh around the gash. She didn’t feel anything except pressure and gave him the go-ahead. He’d put in the first stitch when the elevator dinged to admit Clint –who looked like he’d gone nine rounds with Swamp Thing and lost. His eyes fell on Natasha first and they sized each other up.

“I call worst evening.” He said and plopped onto the stool next to hers and stole of her donuts.

“Clean him up while I finish here.” Bruce handed her an entire box of tissues and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

It occurred to her that they were being disgustingly domestic as she pulled Clint into the daisy-chain of medicine that she and Bruce had started. He sat still as she wiped his face clean, checked him for scratches, and proceeded to work her way down his arms.

“What happened to _you_?” Steve swapped his spot out with Tony, evidently tired of getting beaten up by Thor, and came over to squint at the extent of Clint’s condition. “Were you in the _sewers_?”

“Close. This kid jacked my bike and I had to go through some backstreets to head him off. I misjudged a jump going over a fence and landed in a dumpster.”

“StarkTech™ Anti-Theft Device!” Tony, who was occasionally a walking infomercial, called out from the media center. “On board kill switch and GPS tracking! Available at Best Buy! Good for an insurance discount of at least 20%!”

“You know, one of these days you’re going to meet a problem that you can’t throw technology at.” Steve observed dryly. “I hope I’m there for it.”

“All right, you’re done.” Bruce snipped off the last stitch and took over the job of sanitizing Clint’s scratches. “Go get cleaned up.”

Natasha kissed Bruce on the cheek and found a clean patch to pat Clint on before she made her way to what she had started to consider her room, despite her best efforts. Tony hadn’t made it easy on her. She had a fantastic view of the evening skyline when she wanted it and a view of Mount Elbrus when she didn’t, thanks to the part-time windows that formed the exterior wall of her room. She stripped, dropping her gown and stockings in the trash bin with a pang of regret.  

“I’ve started a hot shower for you in the _en suite_ , ma’am.” JARVIS intoned from the ceiling and Natasha smiled at the nearest camera. God, but she loved that AI.

“Thank you, Jarvis.” She said and stepped into what would be, for most apartments, the master bathroom. She, however, had seen Tony’s master bath and knew her own for the pale imitation that it was. Still; black marble floors and a 360 degree shower was nothing to sniff at. Besides, Tony’s bathroom had been built with orgies in mind not hygiene. He didn’t throw orgies anymore, but the days when he used had left his sense of architectural proportions permanently skewed.

Leaving the last of her clothes in the laundry hamper, she stepped under the steaming hot downpour (favoring her leg with its waterproof bandage). There were few things she liked in life as well as a hot shower; it was an uncomplicated little pleasure and she tended to soak up a lot of abuse in her line of work. How long she stood there letting her muscles relax, she could not say, but apparently it was long enough for Clint to get bored waiting for her in the livingroom.

She cracked an eye as he slipped into the shower behind her, waiting a few critical seconds to sluice off before he actually touched her. Good man. He pulled her back against his chest and dipped his head down to murmur a soft little “Hey” into her ear.

“ _Hmmm_.” Natasha responded by leaning her head back onto his shoulder and guided his hands down to her stomach.  He chuckled into her hair and his right thumb settled into the divot of her belly button. She felt something else pressing into the back of her thighs… and it wasn’t a gun in his pocket, either. “I’m not supposed to stretch my stitches.” She warned him.

“I’ll be careful.” He promised and guided her to brace her weight against the wall with both hands. His hands dipped down to caress her slit, dipping in past her labia to test her arousal. She felt his grin against her shoulder as his finger entered her with ease. “Missed me?”

“I’m injured, Clint.” She laughed and rolled her hips back so that the tip of his member brushed against the soft folds of her sex and not her backside. “Not _dead_. Get moving.”

“Ma’am, yes, ma’am.” He parted her, exposing her inner parts to the steaming water as he pushed into her. It was instinctual to let her eyes flutter shut and let out of soft extended sigh as her body stretched out to accommodate that first slow thrust as his shaft filled her. “That good?”

“Harder.” Natasha groaned and deliberately clamped down on him as he slid out and thrust back into her again… and again… “Yes!” Her nails found purchase on the slick tiled walled and dented the grout as she pushed back against Clint, seeking to meet his rhythm with a counter tempo of her own.

Clint cupped his palms around the jutting curves of her hips, lifting her weight ever so slightly off her feet and easing the strain on her injured thigh. That, as much as the delicious feel of him inside her, was the root of her enjoyment; the ability to entrust herself completely to someone else and know beyond the shadow of a doubt that they would not let her fall or go unsatisfied.

It wasn’t long before Clint’s hands began to shake where they gripped her and his thrusts took on a desperate pitch. He was close. Adrenaline did that to him and he’d had an exciting evening by all accounts… but then, so had she.

Natasha shifted her weight so that she was bracing herself with her forearm between her forehead and the hard wall and slipped her free hand between her thighs. It didn’t take much to bring her to the edge, but she found herself pitched unexpectedly over it when Clint’s calloused fingertips pushed past hers to tweak her sensitized clitoris. Natasha came with a short surprised scream and went limp in his arms.

Clint pulled out of her, still hard and turned her to face him. He hissed in surprise as she reached down and took him in her hand. She grinned at him as he braced himself against the wall with one hand on either side of her as she stroked him. It was petty, perhaps, but she liked watching his expression when she brought him off.

“Natasha…” He growled, face pressed against her temple. “No teasing.”

“No teasing.” She agreed and squeezed him tighter. His hips bucked as his orgasm finally hit and he sagged against her. They stayed like that for a while. They were neither of them cuddlers, but sometimes the contact was nice.

“Let me finish washing.” He said at last. “Then bed?”

She nodded. What little reserves she had left were exactly enough to get her into pajamas and maybe, if she was lucky and budgeted herself well, enough to attack Clint’s back with a topical anesthetic. He patted her hip and gave her a little push out of the shower.

“Catch up with you in a bit.” He pinned her with a look as he wrapped her up in a plush black towel. “Do not fall asleep without me.”

“Bossy.” Natasha rolled her eyes. “Tell me. Have you ever actually slept in your own room?”

He just grinned. “Why would I? You’re in here.”

“Fine. Be fast.” Natasha hoped she was still flushed from the shower and that she wasn’t _actually_ blushing. She hurried out of the bathroom and changed for bed so she wouldn’t have to find out because that really would be unbearably sappy.

She was in her pajamas and sitting up with an Alexandra Marinina novel on her reader when Clint emerged barefoot from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and a pair of droopy drawstring pants that he hadn’t bothers to cinch in at the waist. He pitched the towel he’d been using to dry his hair into the hamper and rummaged around in Natasha’s nightstand for a tube of Icy Hot. He wiggled it in her direction and raised his eyebrows.

“You first.” She directed him to lie down next to her. “I’ll fall asleep otherwise.”

“… and I wouldn’t?” Still, he did as he was told and groaned happily as she straddled his back. This was an old ritual between them. It had started as a cool down after major fights, but had somehow extended to smaller and smaller conflicts until it was just a normal thing. Natasha savored the feel of his lean ropey muscles under her hands as she worked the kinks out of the long bands of muscle along his spine. Calcium deposits crackled satisfactorily under her hands and the cool familiar scent of menthol eased some of her own tension. “You are too good at that.” He muttered.

“Damn straight I am.” Natasha replied and then squeaked as he flipped her over onto her back and pinned her with a thigh. His eyes had gone hot and smoky. An unexpected curl of heat developed in the pit of her stomach. “You’re just trying to get out of having to do your turn.” She accused him.

“Oh, I’ll rub you down.” He promised her huskily and moved to cover her. His fingers slipped under the band of her panties and pushed them down. Natasha bit her lower lip with a grin and lifted her hips in a mute demand for him to pull the garment off completely.

Clint pushed her back into the mattress and she parted her thighs, letting him in with a pleased sigh. Her body was already primed and accepted him easily. This time their lovemaking was slow and luxurious as they rocked against one another. Natasha’s climax, when it happened, washed over her like a gentle wave rather than a bolt of lightning. She kept Clint pinned against her with one calf as he followed her over the edge. This time they’d had time to find a condom so she didn’t have to let go of him a second sooner than necessary.

“Still want that backrub?” He murmured, half-muffled by the pillow and Natasha laughed.

“No, I’m good. Maybe in the morning.” She pushed herself under his arm and pillowed her head on his shoulder and that was how sleep found her a few minutes later; completely relaxed and in the arms of her closest partner as the lights of New York twinkled outside her window.

Natasha has never had a place that she could rightly call home, but if she had to pick just one place… then perhaps this was it.

-Fin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Quoth_the_Ravyn because she asked and I know what's good for me.
> 
> Enjoy!


End file.
